


Boys with Boxes

by thunderbird_dragon



Category: Thunderbirds, thunderbirds are go
Genre: Brotherly Support, Gen, exploitation of young artists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 17:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderbird_dragon/pseuds/thunderbird_dragon
Summary: Virgil's first art exhibition doesn't go at all to plan, hurt and disillusioned, it's up to his brothers to deal with the situation as only Tracy boys know how -





	Boys with Boxes

**Author's Note:**

> I've chosen to add warnings to this one as, although there is no depiction, it does have a distinct tone of sexual predation and the exploitation of young artists

                                                   

                                                               

 

**Virgils First Exhibition - Boys on Boxes**

 

 

Virgil’s first major art exhibition was to be at La Lyntze, the singularly most exclusive venue possible, run by the notoriously grand Eva Lyntze, in San Francisco.

“This is an absolute disaster!”  She bemoaned dramatically, her long slender fingers accentuating her flailing arms, festooned with diamond bracelets, as she waved her hands at the empty walls of her gallery.  She couldn’t stand the stress and told everyone so,  _repeatedly_.  Why?  Well, two week before the opening, Virgil should have been in San Francisco with all his paintings.  They had already been photographed, documented and catalogued, ready for hanging – but where was he?  

He was on one of the longest missions that International Rescue had ever attempted to maintain – by then into its eighth day.  They had been run ragged up and down the eastern Pacific Rim dealing with one repercussion after another of the earthquakes that had shaken the Earth for days.

None of them had slept, with the exception possibly of Alan who seemed to be able to snatch ten minutes here and there wherever he spotted an opportunity. There had been injuries; Scott sported a fine black eye and bruised face from a collision with a landslide as he had tried to reach people trapped on an isolated mountainside roadway. Gordon – a scalded arm from pulling kids out of a tree soon to be surrounded by lava.  For Virgil, it was more the case of damaged dignity after he slid down the sides of a crevasse to reach desperate farmers. His butt was badly grazed when his suit’s material was torn.  John, down from TB5 to help, had sprained his knee in the same slid.  But poor Alan had been bumped and bruised by everything since he’d arrived, everything from falling masonry to live wires seemed to find Alan; even down to a rabbit, who he had promised a little girl that he would go back and rescue, but which had bitten him so hard that he bled for a whole day.

They had dug people out of fallen buildings, put out fires, hauled ships back to shore, rescued hundreds and hundreds;  generally just completed any task that the coordinating authorities set them, without questioning, alongside fire and rescue outfits from throughout the world.  They were just another group doing whatever was asked of them.  

_Now that really was a disaster!_

And at no time did Virgil say – hey I should be in San Francisco!

The others thought it, maybe he did too, but nothing was said.  People’s lives being at risk had that ability to clarify any doubt as to why they did what they did – they knew their priorities.

Towards the end of day eight, the number of requests subsided along with the number of aftershocks and finally, tired beyond belief the Tracy boys went home.

Throughout the island, nothing could be heard except the purring/snoring of sleeping brothers and the ignored, yet incessant, bleeping of a comm from San Francisco.  

It was only on Grandma’s return that the damned thing got answered.

Eva Lyntze started speaking immediately, “Where is Virgil?  He must get here immediately, no – sooner!  I  _demand_  that he understands his responsibilities here.  This is a major opportunity for him, and to be honest at the moment it’s a total disaster!”

Grandma sniffed - disaster – not by their standards and she let Virgil sleep on undisturbed.

Days late, Virgil arrived, Gordon and Alan in tow to lend a hand, they still looked like wrecks but at least they were standing.

Eva was not impressed by Virgil’s additional helpers, she ate little blonds like them for breakfast and still looked round for shredded wheat.  She discounted them entirely, concentrating wholly on Virgil, her rising star.  Her hand was on his shoulder, guiding him from one gallery room to the next, explaining again how the paintings would hang over the two floors of the gallery.

Trailing on behind, it was Gordon who noticed her hand slowly leave Virgil’s shoulder, sliding down to rest instead in the small of his back, her fingers spread wide, then wrap silently around his hip.  

There was something sensual about the movement that caught Gordon’s attention, something  _possessive_.  He wasn’t sure he was comfortable with it, and he was sure that Virgil, totally absorbed in the details of this, his first major exhibition, hadn't noticed.  

Despite being older, taller, broader – there was still something vulnerably naive to Virgil that even years at university and International Rescue hadn’t quite penetrated.

Eva was drop-dead gorgeous, despite being some twenty years older than Virgil, maybe more.  Some guys liked that, perhaps Virgil would, but not the possessiveness.

So regardless of being younger, shorter and narrower than his brother, Gordon decided that he would keep an eye on this woman handling his brother so stealthily.

On the first floor, the packing cases were already being unloaded and Eva again dismissed the younger boys, as her trained staff began to hang the paintings. Alan was sent to get coffee, much to his disgust; this was a boy who, only days before, had been on the forefront of human rescue at its rawest.  Life or death. He’d dealt with whatever had been thrown at him –  _and he was fetching coffee_!  

But this left Gordon watchful.

And there it was again!

Eva’s hand had gone that extra distance and arrived to rest gracefully on Virgil’s butt – now Virgil had noticed!  

Slightly flustered, he looked over his shoulder, not that he could see the hand, however, but he could see Gordon, who raised a knowing eyebrow at him.  A questioning ‘okay, so I see it too’ eyebrow.  But it was clear that Virgil wasn’t enjoying Eva’s advances and Gordon, known for his ability to squeeze through in the tiniest of spaces, pushed between them.  

Her hand retracted immediately.

“Can I help hang this one, I really like this one, I was there when he painted this one you know, I like the colours, he used a lot of Prussian blue and I like the way he got the sea just right, I like the see, did he ever tell you that?…”

She walked away bored with Gordon’s babble.

“What the hell just happened?” was all Virgil could muster.

Gordon couldn’t help but grin at Virgil’s confusion.  “You’ve been weighed up Bro!” he chuckled, “Manhandled!  I think she wants to add you to her own personal art collection!”

Virgil frowned, “What?” There was more than a little panic in his voice.

Gordon eyed him for a moment, “Not your thing then? You don’t fancy an older woman?”

But it was something much deeper that was concerning Virgil, spinning his head until he couldn’t think straight.  

“Gordo?”  His voice low, lost.

Gordon saw the change in his big brother, the total devastation in his eyes, “Hey, what the hell, Virg?”  

Virgil was always so quick to offer a hug when necessary, so Gordon instantly reaching forward for him.  But Virgil was suddenly like fragile glass, turning away.  

“Whoa Virgil!”  And Gordon caught hold of Virgil’s shirt, sure he was about to bolt from the room.  “You run and you know damned well I can catch you up.  Please, just stay and tell me what it is that I’m missing here?”

Virgil gulped visibly, a hand grasping at Gordon now for support, Gordon took it and realised his brother was shaking and beginning to lean on him.  

“Not here!” Virgil’s voice trembled.

“Okay Virg, come on, I’ll get you out.”  An arm now round his big brother, they made their way to the elevator, as Gordon opened his comms to his little brother. “Alan! No questions, just drop what you’re doing and meet us in the piazza – NOW!”

Alan was only too happy to oblige and came at a run to see Virgil and Gordon leaving in the glass elevator, he clattered down the stairs encircling it, watching their faces, instantly concerned for Virgil.  As the doors opened on the ground floor, he took up station on Virgil’s other side and as instructed, asked no questions.

Outside in the air, Virgil broke loose from both of them, filling his lungs with air as though he’d not breathed in a week.

Alan looked to Gordon for some sort of explanation but Gordon could only offer a shrug, confused himself.  This couldn’t be about the ‘older woman’ thing, it was something much deeper, something that truly hurt their brother – but what? Gordon held up a hand for Alan to give Virgil a little more time, waiting to be invited back into the inner workings of their artist brother’s mind.

From behind, Virgil looked like a mountain rock, ridged, solid and so very still.

Inside, his mind was tumbling, over and over in catastrophic confusion.

Was his dream really over before it had ever started?

Silently, he began to walk.

Alan looked again to Gordon for guidance, and they both decided to walk too, ten yards or so behind their brother - there if they were needed.  

For over an hour they shadowed him, quietly, just being there.

Virgil walked on, able at last to stop the tumbling of thought.  He had closed down his mind entirely, closed himself down and just walked. Through streets, up hills, out on heights, down and down until he met with the sea, crashing hard against a sea wall.

Spray, lifting by the stiff constant breeze, hitting his face.

His brothers thought they could see a softening of his shoulders – and waited.

He stood for ten minutes more and then sighed.

Was he even aware that he had supporters stood just yards away from him?

“Virg?”  Gordon offered softly.

Just perceivably, they saw him jump at the word – so no, he hadn’t been aware. Now he turned, his face blank.

“You okay Virg?”  Alan couldn’t help himself, he stepped forward and wrapped arms around him.

“Yeah!”  Virgil answered low but his eyes were fixed on Gordon.  Gordon who had seen what had happened.  Gordon who was so much more worldly wise than he.  It was to Gordon he asked, “Did she ever actually want my paintings?”

And instantly Gordon understood, the realisation hitting him like a spear – the bitch!

It had taken years for Virgil to work up the confidence to offer his paintings out to a wider audience and truly thought he had struck gold at being asked to exhibit in the world’s most exclusive gallery.

Had Eva Lyntze wanted his paintings or had she simply wanted to possess him? She probably had other young hopefuls hidden away all over the city at her beck and call.  Willing to do what exactly, to have their work exhibited?

Where was Virgil’s dream in that?  Eva Lyntze, in one touch of her hand, had destroyed it.

“Gordon! NO!”

But Virgil’s brother had taken off at a run – Virgil knew where, but the fight was out of him, his fragile ambitions shattered.  For now, he just sank to sit on the edge of the water, his littlest brother supporting him as only Alan could.

All the Tracy boys could run at full belt and still be understood on the comms, it was a skill born of necessity and constant practice. “Guys!  I need some backup!”  Gordon then explained as best he could what had happened.

Enraged – Scott and John mobilised.

Back at the Gallery, Gordon came back through the double doors like a bullet and slid to a halt on the polished marble flooring.

Eva stood in the centre of that floor, her arms folded tight across her chest.  Her immaculately shod toe tapping an irritated tattoo against the same marble, “Where the hell is your brother!”

She may have thought she looked intimidating but the Tracy’s knew what intimidating really looked like – it was an exploding volcanic mountain, flows of encroaching lava or deathly land-slides.  

Gordon straightened up. He knew he looked a mess and was pleased that he probably did.  He was hot, sweating, small, blond, probably all the things she hated most!  And he hoped it infuriated her even more to have this irritating younger brother messing up her beautiful floor.

“Gone!”

“Gone!  Where the hell has he gone?”  She demanded.

“Just gone, much like his paintings.  I’m the forward party for the removal of Virgil’s artwork.”  He walked by her as though she was of no consequence and said to one of the assistance unpacking canvases, “Don’t bother with that, there’s going to be no exhibition here.”

Eva was on him, her bracelets jangling as her hand shot forward to grasp at his arm.  Bony fingers dug in as she yanked him round to face her.

“What the hell are you talking about!”  It wasn’t a question, it was a means to dig her fingers in deeper and shake the boy in her grasp.  She was stronger than she looked and damned near took Gordon off his feet.  “Nothing is happening to this exhibition, I’ve invested too much in it to see it fail!  It’s going right on as planned and you,  _you little shit_ , have no say in the matter!” and with more force than Gordon thought possible from her, she flung him towards the door.

He fell and slid backwards on the polished surface, right at the feet of a diminutive elderly man in a straw Panama hat, who tut-tutted at the youth sprawled on the floor.  Surprisingly, the man held out a hand and hauled Gordon to his feet.  “Are you hurt?”

Eva was screaming at the top of her voice for her security to remove them both.  “And you can fuck off too Nigel, no one invited you in!”

The older man, Nigel, smiled graciously at her, but continued to pay attention to the boy, “You’re not the artist here, I can tell that at a glance, too blond, too short!”

Gordon screwed up his face shrewdly to look at this man.  Initially, he reminded him of Grandpa – a dangerous thing to do.  He mustn’t get drawn into trusting a stranger just because he looked like his Grandpa, but then there was a genuine kindness to the guy.  

“No, my brother’s the artist!”

Nigel smiled, “Ah, tall, dark and moody is he?”

Gordon thought about that for a second, yes, that would describe Virgil, but how did this guy know – oh shit!  Was this woman so very notorious that everyone knew exactly what manner of artist she went for – were every one of them the same – did their artwork count for nothing unless they themselves fitted the tall, dark and moody category? He chose not to reply.

Nigel nodded knowingly as he slowly drew a business card from his inside pocket and held it out to Gordon.  

“ _Oh no you don’t_!”  Bellowed Eva with every ounce of lung capacity.

But Nigel held it out further, “Take it, I’ve seen the photos of your brother’s work, it’s very good. When he’s ready to exhibit in a real art gallery…” and he smiled levelly towards Eva.  “Just let me know.”

“ _GET OUT_!”  Eva was in his face now – purple with rage.  “You poach one more of my artists and I will sue you for everything you’ve got!”

The old man shrugged, “Calm down Eva, you’ll burst a blood vessel.  I have nothing, you know I don’t.  Everything is owned by the charitable trust.  You’ll get nowhere suing me!”

Gordon turned the card over and read ‘The Nigel Ernest Trust for Young Artists’ and an address of a gallery no more than half a mile away.  He’d check it out before suggesting anything to Virgil.  It would take some time for Virgil to want to trust anyone again.

Hands rested on both of Gordon’s shoulders and he looked round expecting it to be security – but no, it was Scott, backed up by John.

“Is this Eva Lyntze?” Scott asked quietly in his ear, trying to unravel the scene as the older man doffed his hat to them and with a bemused, yet gentle smile, he left the building.  Gordon nodded, tucking the card safely into his jeans pocket.

“Ms Lyntze, Virgil will not be exhibiting with you, I’m here to arrange the removal of his artwork!” Scott spoke with that authority that reminded Gordon and John of their father.

Eva huffed, more concerned to have Nigel Ernest off the premises than she was with this new threat to her exhibition and thereby her access to Virgil.  She shook herself and turned to look with full force at this new ‘tall, dark and moody’ stood before her.  She wasn’t so keen on blue eyes so found it easy to dismiss him.

“Rubbish,  _absolute rubbish_!”  She moved away as though they would simply disappear if she paid them no attention. “Remove any artwork and I shall sue Virgil Tracy for every penny he has – trust me, I’ve done it before!”  Her voice ended in a low growl of threat as she turned her back on them all.

John took just four of his long strides to stand in front of her, blocking her way.  “I don’t think you’ll be able to do that.”  He was calmest under pressure, his eyes impassively rested upon hers, his expression that of someone who knows what he’s talking about. “I took a look at your contract with my brother.  I find it hard to believe you’ve been able to sue anyone using a contract such as that. Your legal team seem to have missed something – they may want to take a look at a similar case brought in Washington – Whatt v Tho in 2042. I’m afraid your contracts not worth the data space it takes up.”

A Harvard education was an extremely beautiful thing.  

He smiled evenly at her, waiting for a reaction, before adding gently, “Perhaps I should suggest to your previous ‘ _victims_ ’ that they also take a look at Whatt v Tho. They may wish to take it up with their own legal advisers again.”  

Her mouth was hanging open.

Scott and Gordon quietly high-fived behind her, smiles widening. 

Scott stepped up again, “So, as I was saying, I’m here to remove the paintings. This exhibition will not be going ahead.”  And to make the point he walked to the closest packing case, closed the lid and carried it from the building.

It had taken a day to pack the paintings on the island but only an hour to repack them in the gallery and haul each case out onto the piazza.  Where the Tracy boys sat on the cases, admiring their blatant protest at the gallery.

People gathered, curious about this new ‘life exhibition’.  

‘Boys and Boxes.’ They were told.

It had been John’s idea, he explained that by giving themselves a name, they gave credence to their exhibition – a protest exhibition.  They’d all agreed, even Virgil who had been persuaded to return to the piazza and to sit on a box.  

They chose to stay right outside the gallery and passersby asked questions. John again stepped up to very careful answer them without saying anything slanderous.  He chose to go down the route of unfair contracts, rather than that of the exploitation of young artists.  And although it was cleverly worded, those that took the time to listen, understood what had actually happened.

Eva’s previous activities were now under close scrutiny.

By early evening, a large number of people were enjoying the atmosphere and sat around the packing cases, chatting, discussing art and art galleries.  Other artists had arrived, they shared stories, happy to recommend legitimate art galleries to Virgil.  He listened, confidence building again, there were so many really good recommendations against only one or two bad ones. The world of art galleries was looking wholesome again to him.

Candles were lit, soft music was played and the mellow protest continued happily.  Food and wine arrived from restaurants close by, wanting to be part of it all.  

TV cameras arrived and asked what was going on.  

Police came, assessed the situation and without apology, explained to Eva that no laws were being broken, so there was nothing they could do to clear the protest away.  She stamped her little feet and left by the back door.

The protest was peaceful yet strong.

Gentle - like Virgil.

He sat back and watched it for a while.  Soft candlelight glowing on like-minded people sat chatting in the mild evening air. Was it an exhibition?  Yes, he thought perhaps it was.  Was it art?  Definitely, a living art, a gathering of mellow people around paintings in their packing cases - ‘Boys and Boxes’ and he smiled.    
If this gathering was his first ever exhibition, then he was very content with it.”

 

 


End file.
